


Ouroboros

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, First Time, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik has come upon -- and conquered -- more than a few unstoppable forces in his life. What could <i>love</i> possibly have on any of the rest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

It was the second time Erik almost drowned.

They finished their nightly game of chess. They drained their glasses -- scotch for the both of them, that time -- and before either had the chance to comment on the fading fire, to break the easy silence, Charles pushed the table away and nestled himself between Erik's thighs, his hands on Erik's chest, fingers working at Erik's belt. Too dexterous; too mindful.

//Erik,// Charles purred, the single syllable doubling-up as it hit Erik's mind. And again, like concentric ripples in still water: //We needn't wait. There isn't time. If it's what you want--//

"Shut up," Erik said, and pressed his mouth over Charles'. He worked at Charles' lips, tasting first the soft, bowed curves, before he delved deeper. He moved his tongue in a slow circle round the inner edge until he hit that taut little arch of skin at the top, and Charles' breath hitched in his chest, his teeth parting to let Erik in.

And of course it was what Erik wanted. It was what he longed for, if he was honest. (This once, he would be, because honesty couldn't hurt half as much as _not_ having Charles.) He didn't give a damn for human mores, and in any event, they were neither of them human. If there was to be something between them, it might as well be everything.

Oh, he _wanted_ Charles. But he needed to know-- he needed--

There wasn't enough room. Erik grasped Charles' shoulders and pushed him back over the low edge of the chair until Charles hit the floor, Erik himself in tow. Erik fumbled with Charles' buttons, parted his collar, and dipped his mouth to lap at the pale length of his neck the moment it was uncovered.

Charles' skin didn't taste of anything, not sweat nor soap. It was as if he was a wisp of vapor caught midair -- but for this: he was solid in Erik's arms, his hands finally finding their way into Erik's trousers.

The angle was awkward. But Charles could be resourceful when he applied himself to a thing: he twisted his hips enough to make maneuvering easier, then took Erik's cock in his palm, dashed a thumb over the tip, and for a long while Erik could only shudder and stifle low moans down Charles' throat.

//Erik, Erik,// came Charles' voice, a lilting din. //Let me in.//

Erik wanted that too. With every fibre of thought he could wrestle from that raw physicality, he sent out _yes_.

Hotly, he was aware that his hands had reached Charles' groin, and with a gesture he took care of Charles' belt and zip. Getting the button undone took actual contact, but then so too did pushing away Charles' shirttails and parting his briefs. Charles let out a short grunt when Erik took his cock in his hand. But he was smiling, looking up into Erik's eyes with more wonderment than was necessary, than could possibly be true.

Of course, they never did speak a common language.

When Erik spit in his palm and got both of them together, aligning them shaft to shaft in his fist, Charles' fingers scrabbled up Erik's back to push at his shirt and touch bare skin. Then Charles drew around again to rest his hands at both sides of Erik's face.

Well, how could Erik describe that, right then? Charles' mind brushed against Erik's, gently at first, then with greater urgency, steady in and in like the rising tide, until Erik was all but submerged in it, dazzled, breathlessly bobbing. "Charles! Charles, please."

//Erik, you must let me know if it's too much.//

"No, more," Erik managed, "I need more."

He thought that his mind must have stretched then, or that he'd gained acuteness and altitude where before there was only blood and dust and the ever-present metallic hum of the world.

//Let me feel that, Erik. Let me see it _through_ you.//

Erik sucked in a juddering breath, clenched his eyes shut, and reached out. Immediately, he sensed the lines of brass studs on his and Charles' chairs, the chandelier above, unlit for ages, the inner-workings of the door lock, and the window bearings. He felt the burn of the andiron, the consistent whip of flames against its sides, and the way it had bowed and gradually bent after decades of use.

//It's magnificent, Erik. I had no idea.//

But of course Erik knew nothing else. The word of metal had always been a quiver in his ear. It was constant, at once light and heavy, and it guided him with a truer needle than any man-wrought compass -- it could be counted on to arm him in battle, and shield him from harm. He was scarcely aware that even then, his powers worked to draw him up from the churning bonds of Charles' mind, as though his body sought safety where his thoughts would welcome the deluge.

"It's too much," Erik gasped, his hand working their cocks, steady and fierce. Then he bit down on Charles' shoulder.

"Oh!" Charles' voice was rough with disuse. "Don't try to hold back. _Please_ , don't stop."

"I can't--" Erik cut off, and came into his palm. His body was wracked with a series of tremors, bullets ricocheted off steel -- but that was Charles.

They spent a few minutes calming down, untangling themselves in body and mind. Erik rolled off to Charles' side, though Charles didn't loosen his grip on Erik's arm. And then: "I ruined the andiron." Without looking at it, Erik knew it lay on the hearth's edge in a crushed, still-smoldering ball.

"Don't worry," Charles said, and smiled. He pressed his lips to Erik's jaw, his breath ghosting over the flesh in irregular beats, like Morse, but with enough warmth to make Erik shiver. "It wasn't some family heirloom."

"And if it was?"

"It wouldn't matter anyway."

Charles kissed him again. Then they pulled their clothes together, spread the coals to smother the fire, and retreated to separate rooms. Erik could still feel the whisper of Charles' mind; but then it settled to nothing, and in time even the hallway stopped its creaking.

*

It wasn't a nervous habit, or something to betray a lack of control.

It was only a thing Erik did because he could.

He flattened pennies into rose petals and left them on counter tops, windowsills.

He pocketed wing-nuts and washers and whatever bits-and-bobs of metal he found lurking in hallway corners, abandoned or lost, and when the mood struck him, or when he was in no mood at all, he reformed them into perfect spheres. In idle moments, he at first made a sport of balancing them on top of his otherwise bare bureau, but later cast them out in myriad directions across the mansion's grounds. He commanded them to burrow into the earth.

Even so, if he concentrated, he could still pick them out. If he wanted, he could call them back.

He later took a spoon from the kitchen: just a small, dusty thing he recovered from behind the sideboard. He worked the silver between his fingers, warming it, coaxing out its shine. He stripped it of feathering and adornment. And he made it contract, contort; he folded it in on itself, and winched it into the shape of a ring.

At first he thought he might wear it. But no, he wouldn't allow himself the sentiment; it wasn't meant for that. It wasn't meant for anything. And so he dropped it into a drawer and did his best to forget.

This thing -- it wasn't like a breadcrumb trail. Erik didn't need to be found.

*

The first night Erik stayed in Charles' room til dawn, Erik didn't sleep. Charles' body was so hot. But Erik held him all the tighter, pressed him knee-to-knee, chest-to-back, and mouth-to-nape, his breath stirring Charles' hair in neat, regular puffs.

And then: "There's nothing here that could harm me, Erik."

"What?"

"You're worried you'll have a nightmare," said Charles. He was utterly still. "You think you won't be able to control yourself, that you might reach out for every bit of metal in the room and cast it about."

"Even if such a thing was unlikely, sleep is a luxury I can do without," said Erik.

With that, Charles did stir. He turned round in Erik's grasp until their gazes met, then gently brushed the hair from Erik's brow. "Now you're just being obstinate. I'm the one who has to _live_ with you. This house doesn't need another exhausted mutant running around: remember what happened yesterday with Sean in the arboretum."

Erik shook his head. But before he could argue further, Charles lowered his hand to stroke a finger over Erik's lips.

"Listen," said Charles. "We can take turns. Just let me watch over you a while. And then we can batten down the hatches in here tomorrow."

"You make it sound like we'd need a permanent solution."

"Examining the root of your fear -- that might lead to permanence. Think of it as a segue. Now _please_ get some rest, or so help me I'll do everything in my power to make sure you do."

Erik wasn't one to acquiesce to another man's demands. But eventually sleep claimed him anyway. When he woke, dawn had already crept across the room, casting everything in low blue light. And damn him, Charles was waiting.


End file.
